A July Holiday in Saxony, Bohemia, and Silesia

I found out the Bezirksamt at the farther end of the town, and was there told to go back to the middle, and get my passport signed at the Magistratur. I had to wait while four others passed the desk. The first, a portly gentleman, evidently of some consideration, was dismissed in half a minute, and treated to a pinch of snuff by the clerk. The second, a petty trader, was kept five minutes, and had to tell why he wished to journey, and what he meant to do. The third, a peasant, was only released after a cross-examination, as if he had been a conspirator; and a rigorous scrutiny of his passport, which occupied a quarter-hour. The fourth, a poor woman, as I have before mentioned, was denied, and went away with tears in her eyes. Then came my turn.

"Where are you going?"

I had always the same answer: "To the Riesengebirge."

But as no visa could be given for mere mountains, I named Landeshut, a few miles beyond the frontier, telling the functionary at the same time that I had no intention of visiting the town, and should in all probability not go thither.

Apparently it mattered not, for the visa was made out and stamped. This done, the clerk took my passport, and withdrew to an inner room. His brother clerks in all the offices I had yet entered had done the same. What did it mean? Is there a secret chamber where some highest functionary sits with a black list before him, in which he must search for suspected names? No one would tell me. After five minutes the clerk returned, gave me back my passport, but, less courteous than his fellows, did not wish me a pleasant journey.

I dined at the Rothen Adler; strolled through the market-place and the arcades of the old houses on either side, noting the ways of the crowd who were buying and selling meal, fruit, and vegetables. Groups of countrywomen were passing in and out of the church at the upper end; and countrymen arrived with trains of bullock-wagons—the vehicles so disproportionately small when contrasted with the animals, that you could not look at them without laughing. However, they carry away cotton bales and dyestuffs, of which you see good store in the warehouses. You see piles of woollen cloth, too, and troops of factory-girls going to dinner.

You will tarry awhile to admire the view from the hill beyond the town, and will, perhaps, think the tall chimneys rising here and there without the crowding roofs rather picturesque than otherwise. All around is hill and dale; the graceful peak of the Jeschken, 3000 feet high, is in sight; and away to the north-east, inviting you on, rise heaps of blue mountains. And as you proceed you descend every two or three miles into a charming little valley, where you see little factories, and stripes of linen stretched out to bleach on the grassy slopes. So at Reinowitz; so at Schlag; so at Neudorf; so at Morchenstern. At Grünheid, where I stayed for a half-hour's rest, there was a noticeable appearance of cleanliness. The inn, inviting of aspect, would have satisfied even a Dutchwoman. While drinking my glass of beer I had a talk with the hostesses—two happy-looking sisters, who presently told me they had a brother in England, at Oldham, learning how to spin cotton and manage a factory. Did I know Oldham?—had I ever been there?—could I tell them anything about it?—and so forth. Having visited more than once that hard-working town, I was enabled to gratify their curiosity. Then they told me of an Englishman who was employed in a factory about a mile distant. He had been there three years, yet his manners were so coarse and disagreeable that no one liked him, although at first many would have been his friends. He had learned but very little German, and that of the worst kind, and was over fond of drinking too much beer. "He has been trying for some time," they said, "to get a wife; but no woman will have him. While good Bohemian husbands are to be had, who would marry a bad Englishman? And so now he is going to fetch a wife from his own country."

And then they asked, "Are all Englishmen such as he?"

Need I record my answer? It enlightened them as to the real value of the sample they had described, and made them fully aware that I for one did not regard Lancashire as England's model county.

More curious rocks as we drop down towards Tannwald—a place, as its name indicates, of fir forests. It lies deep among hills, watered by a stream brawling along a stony bed, and here and there you see the weatherbeaten heads of huge boulders peering from among the trees. The road makes short and frequent windings by the side of the stream; now skirted by groves of mountain ash, and slopes red with clustering loosestrife; now by feathery larches, green and graceful, contrasting beautifully with the melancholy firs. Then you pass an enormous spinnery, its thousand spindles driven by the dashing torrent; and peeping between the plants and flowers with which nearly every window is adorned, you see an army of girls within, busy at the machinery. Another and another spinnery succeeds; the houses of the masters appear aloft on pleasant sites, and signs of prosperous trade crowded into the bend of a narrow valley. In one place you see a broad alley through the firs to the top of the highest hill, cut at the masters' cost for the recreation of the workpeople. Thickly-strewn cottages betoken a numerous population. "I wish there were more factories," said the landlord of the Goldene Krone, "for we have people enough—more than enough." Every year things got dearer, greatly to the folks' surprise. Not many months ago a traveller has passed through, who told them that things would never be cheap again; but no one would believe him. Some of the best spinners could earn from five to six florins a week: thriftiness, however, was a rare virtue, and to earn the money easier than to save it. Perhaps mine host was the man of all others in Tannwald best able to speak with knowledge on this economical question.

If so minded, you can travel from Reichenberg to Tannwald by Stellwagen; beyond, the road becomes more and more hilly, and worsens off to a stony track broken with deep ruts. By taking a short cut directly up the hill you may save a mile or more on the way to the next village—Przichowitz; a name that looks unpronounceable. It is a steep climb for about half an hour, provoking many a halt, during which you enjoy the ever-widening view. From the expanse of hill and dale to the numberless cottages all around you, each fronted by a fenced flower-garden, and haunted by the noise of looms, you will find ample occupation for the eye. And if you wish to observe domestic labour competing with the factory-units with an organized multitude—the opportunity is favourable.

Przichowitz stands on what appears to be the very top of the hill till you see the wooded eminence, Stephanshöh, beyond. There are two inns: the Grünen Baum, with a fourth share of a bedroom; the Gasthaus zur Stephanshöh, somewhat Czechish in its appointments. I quartered myself at the latter; and discovered two redeeming points—good wine and excellent coffee.

At bedtime the landlord demanded my passport, with an intimation that he should keep it in his possession all night. I demurred. He might bring his book and enter my name if he would: as for giving up to him a document so essential to locomotion anywhere within sight of the black and yellow stripes, I saw no reason why I should, and therefore shouldn't.

"But you must."

"But I won't."

"The gendarme will come."

"Let him come. He will find at least one honest man under your roof."

The hostess came forward and put in her word: the company present, who were topping-off their three hours' potation of Einfach with a glass of Schnaps, ceased their conversation, and put in theirs:

"Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil,"Wi' usquebaugh we'll face the devil."

the Kellnerinn waiting all the while with my bed-candle in her hand. Every one, except the serving-maid, who held her peace, sided with the landlord.

I urged the same reply over and over again, that not having been asked at any other Wirthshaus to yield possession of my passport for a night, I could not believe that any regulation to the contrary prevailed for Przichowitz.

At length the company, as it appeared, having exhausted their suggestions, the landlord fetched his book, and had dipped a pen into the inkstand, when two soldiers, who were eating a supper of sausage, brown bread and onions, at a table apart, beckoned him, and whispered something in his ear.

The whisper revived his suspicions, and would have renewed the altercation; but I took up my knapsack, asked what was to pay, and declared for a moonlight walk to Rochlitz.

The demonstration made him pause: he opened the book, dipped the pen once more into the inkstand, and looked wonderingly at my passport, which I held open before him. He tried to spell it out; but in vain. The pen went into the inkstand again; but to no purpose. He was completely bothered; and at last, putting the pen in my hand, he said, not now in a peremptory tone—"Will you enter your own name, if I let you do it?"

It would have served him right had I refused, and left the task entirely to him. However, not to be too hard upon him, I promised not to inscribe Brown, Jones, or Robinson, and wrote what was required.

Then, looking round on the company, I said: "A pretty set of cowards you are! Here are nine of ye, two of them soldiers, and you all take the part of a suspicious landlord against one—and that one a foreigner. No wonder you are all afraid of a gendarme; and submit to ask leave when you want to go a day's journey. Try, in future, and remember that honesty does not become rogue by travelling on foot. Good night!"

"So, now it's settled," said the Kellnerinn, who still waited with the candle in her hand; and she led the way up-stairs.

Before sleeping I repented of my speech; for what could be expected from people who never attended a vestry meeting—never saw a general election—never exercised the privilege of booting a candidate on the hustings?

And never had a Times to publish their grievances.

CHAPTER XX

Stephanshöh—A Presumptuous Landlord—Czechs again—Stewed Weavers—Prompt Civilities—The Iser—A Quiet Vale—Barrande's Opinion of the Czechs—Rochlitz—An offshoot from Tyre—A Happy Landlord—A Rustic Guide—Hill Paths—The Grünstein—Rübezahl's Rose Garden—Dreary Fells—Source of the Elbe—Solitude and Visitors—The Elbfall—Stony Slopes—Strange Rocks—Rübezahl's Glove—Knieholz—Schneegruben—View into Silesia—Tremendous Cliffs—Basalt in Granite—The Landlord's Bazaar—The Wandering Stone—A Tragsessel—A Desolate Scene—Rougher Walking—Musical Surprises—Spindlerbaude—The Mädelstein—Great Pond and Little Pond—The Mittagstein—The Riesengrund—The Last Zigzags—An Inn in the Clouds.

Soon after six the next morning I was on the top of Stephanshöh—about twenty minutes' walk from the inn—prepared to enjoy the view: and did enjoy all that was not concealed by mist. Every minute, too, as the heaving vapour melted away, so did the landscape widen and rejoice in the sunbeams. We are here on the roots of the Riesengebirge, and all around is a rolling country, rising higher and higher towards the north. Because of the view the height is famous throughout the neighbourhood; visitors come to it even from Reichenberg.

While I was drinking my early cup of coffee, the landlord came forward, made a bow, and expressed his hope to see me again some day.

"Hope not," I replied, "for besides plaguing folk about their passport, you lodge them between dirty sheets over an unswept floor. Good morning!"

Beware, reader, of Przichowitz!

The road winding along a hill-side leads you onwards high above the valleys that open at every bend. After about an hour it narrows into a footpath, which presently branches off into many paths down the steep slope of a secluded vale. A woman of whom I asked the way shook her head, and answered, "Böhmisch," and to my surprise I found myself once more among the Czechs. A Sclavonic wedge, so to speak, here cuts between the German-speaking population who inhabit the northern border. With its base in the heart of the kingdom, it stretches away to the Silesian frontier, traceable for the most part by the names of numerous villages ending in witz.

I chose a path for myself which led down between patches of clover and rye, beetroot and potatoes, through little orchards, under rows of limes, to a house which, at a distance, had an imposing, spacious appearance; deceitful till you come near. The ground stage is nothing but a rough mass of masonry supporting that which is really the house—a low wooden edifice, swarming with weavers, reared aloft, probably, to keep it out of the way of floods. As I mounted the rude steps in quest of information, a weaver opened a casement and put out his head, letting out, at the same time, a rush of the depraved air in which he and his mates were working. I asked the way.

He shook his head, and answered, "Böhmisch."

He did more. He started up from his loom, came actually forth into the wholesome air, and ran to a cottage some distance off, making signs to me to wait his return. He came presently back wearing a triumphant look, accompanied by another weaver, who could speak German enough to assure me that I was on the right track for Rochlitz, and that the mountain stream flowing so merrily past was the Iser. Poor men! they both had a pale, sodden look, which moved me to recommend fresh air and open windows. But no: they shivered, and could not weave when the windows were open.

A bright stream is the Iser, and plenteous of trout: a water such as the angler loves, now brawling over shallows, now sleeping in hazel-fringed pools. You will pause more than once while climbing the hill beyond to scan the vale. All the greater slopes are broken up with lesser undulations—wherein much is half seen, and thickly-patched with wood; little cottages nestle everywhere among the trees, the little chapel near the summit; and here and there on the outskirts a dark ridge of firs reminds you of the melancholy miles of forest beyond. Here, far from great roads, all breathes of calm and content, all sights and sounds are rural; you hear the water babbling to the whispering leaves, and might fancy yourself in the very home of happiness. But

"The statutes of the golden age,That lingered faint and longIn sylvan rites of olden time,So dear to ancient song,The world hath trampled in its hasteAt Mammon's shrine to bow;And many a Tyre our steps may find,But no Arcadia now."

With the Iser the Czechs are left behind. While taking leave of the oval-faced people, the opportunity seems fitting to bring forward a few words of testimony concerning them, which may be weighed against that mentioned in a former page. Barrande, the distinguished geologist, says, in his Silurian System of Bohemia, that, in 1840, he and his friends commenced a regular exploration of strata, employing native labourers in different parts of the country, either singly making new excavations, or in groups opening quarries. "These labourers," he continues, "provided with the necessary tools, and practically instructed by working with us for some time, soon acquired the knowledge indispensable for distinguishing every organic trace—the objects of our studies—at the first glance. In this respect we have often had occasion to admire the intelligence of the Bohemians (Czechs), even of those belonging to the humblest class. Some among them employed in our researches during ten or twelve years acquired a remarkable skill as seekers of fossils. They gather up and put together the smallest fragments which belong to any specimen broken in splitting the rock; they use a lens to discover the fugitive traces of the minutest embryo, and they know very well how to distinguish all rare or new forms in the district to which they are attached. A sort of nomenclature, improvised by themselves out of the Bohemian language, has served us to designate both the species and formations in which they are found."

Thus, with his rustic Czechs, Mr. Barrande could carry on investigations at a distance, while in his study at Prague he prepared his truly great work for publication. One of the diggers brought in the specimens once a week; and in this way were discovered fifteen hundred species of what geologists call Silurian and Cambrian fossils, the existence of which in Bohemia was before unknown.

It is not far to Rochlitz—perhaps a mile—but the vale is hidden ere you arrive by the shoulder of the hill. Almost the first house is Gast und Einkehr Haus zur Linde, and it has a living sign—a beautiful linden-tree. Here cleanliness prevails, and the speech is German; but the room is so hot from the scorching stove, that I prefer to eat my second breakfast on the grass in the shadow of the lime, and listen to the busy hum of countless bees among the branches. The room, however, was a study—a sort of museum: racks overhead, three glass closets, twenty-four pictures, a sofa, a score of daddy-longlegs chairs, a guitar and fiddle, two beds in view besides one shut off by a screen, and all the sundries common to a public-house. But for good housewifery it would be hideous.

The landlord, a man of friendly speech, came out for a talk. From his orchard we could look down into a charming dell: a sylvan retreat, marred, alas! by an offshoot from Tyre. From among the trees there rose the tall chimney and staring walls of a factory; and while we talked, a dozen men went past, each wheeling a barrow-load of lime, from a distance of two miles, for the building. Mine host felt glad at the prospect of work for the people. "We have nine thousand inhabitants in Rochlitz," he said; "'tis a great place. To walk through it you must take three hours." And he pointed out a cliff overlooking a valley where mining works had just been bought by a Russian for two hundred thousand florins. "Yes, there would be work enough for the people." Plenty of work at little wages. A weaver earns one florin twenty-four kreutzers a week, and the happy few who achieve two florins are regarded as rich by their neighbours: perhaps with envy and admiration.

Then he pointed out his own ground, and his forest run reaching to the very hill-top, all of which had cost him fifteen thousand florins; and he turned to all quarters of the compass with the air of a man well pleased with himself. "Those," he said, stretching his finger towards a row of short, round, wooden columns with conical roofs—"those are my beehives; come and look at them."

These hives are about four feet high, fixed clear of the ground by stakes driven through the turf, and are constructed in compartments one fitting above the other. The bees begin to work in the lowest, and, when that is filled, ascend into the upper stories. One among them seemed deserted.

"Let us see what's the matter," said the landlord; and he lifted off the top story. Immediately there swarmed out thousands of earwigs.

"Huhu! that's not the sort of bees we want. Coobiddy, coobiddy!" And judging from the lusty crow that followed it, chanticleer and his seraglio must have had a satisfactory repast.

But Schneekoppe was yet far off, and there was no time to be lost if I wished to reach that Mont Blanc of German tourists before night. I inclined to leave the rough-beaten track through the valleys for short cuts across the hills, and asked the landlord about a guide. His woodcutter, who was splitting logs close by, knew great part of the way, and was ready to start there and then and carry my knapsack for a florin. He put a piece of coarse brown bread into a bag, which he lashed to one of the straps, and away we went.

"Good-bye!" said the landlord: "a month later and you would have had company enough; for then students come in herds to see the mountains."

We struck at once up a grassy hill on the left, and could soon look down on Rochlitz—houses scattered along either side of a narrow road in a deep valley; and, far in the rear, on Hochstadt, a wee town of great trade. Then we came to a Jägerhaus, and plunged into a pine forest, walking for two or three miles along winding paths, paved with roots, under a solemn shade where, here and there, sunny gleams sought out the richest brown of the tall, straight stems, and the brightest emerald among the patches of damp moss. At times we came to graceful birches scattered among the firs, and their drooping branches and silvery boles looked all the more beautiful amid companions so unbending.

We emerged on a bare, turfy slope, and came presently to a stony ridge on the right—the Grünstein—so named from a large bright green circle of lichen on the broken rocks which first catch your eye. A little farther along the same ridge, and the guide points to a great ring of stones on the slope as Rübezahl's Rose-garden, and the name makes you aware that here is the classic ground of gnomery. You remember the German storybooks read long ago with delight, wonder, or fear: the impish pranks, the tricks played upon knaves, the lumps of gold that rewarded virtue; the marvellous world deep underground, and all the weird romance.

You will perhaps think that imps had a right to be mischievous in such a region. On the left opens a wild, dreary expanse of fells—the coarse brown turf strewn with hassocks of coarser grass, and pale lumps of quartz intermingled, and rushy patches of darker hue showing where the ground is soft and swampy. It has a lifeless aspect, increased by a few scattered bushes of Knieholz that look like firs which have stunted themselves in efforts to grow. Now and then an Alpine lark twitters and flits past, as if impatient to escape from the cheerless scene.

We crossed these fells, guided by an irregular line of posts planted far apart. In places the ground quakes under your foot, and attempts to cut off curves are baffled by treacherous sloughs. On you go for nearly an hour, the view growing wilder, until, in the middle of a spongy meadow, known as the Naworer Wiese, you see a spring bubbling up in a circular basin. It is the source of the Elbe.

Here, 4380 feet above the sea-level, the solitude is complete. Here you may lie on your back looking up at the idle clouds, and enjoy the luxury of silence, for the prattle of the water disturbs it not. You will think it no loss that nothing now remains of monuments which the Archdukes Joseph and Rainer once erected here to commemorate their visit: the lonely scene is better without them. There are monuments not far off more to your mind. Towards the south rises the Krkonosch Berg7—sometimes called the Halsträger—and Kesselkoppe towards the west; great purple-shaded slopes of darkest green.

Not often during the summer will you find real solitude, as we did; for the Germans come in throngs and sit around the little pool to quaff the sparkling water, or pour libations of richer liquor. Is not this the birthplace of the Elbe, the river that carries fatness to many a broad league of their fatherland, and merchandise to its marts? Many a merry picnic has Krkonosch witnessed, and many a burst of sentiment. Hither used to come in the holidays—perhaps he comes still—a certain rector of a Silesian school with his scholars; and after their frolics he would teach them that the life of a river was but the symbol of their own life; and then, after each one had jumped across the sprightly rivulet, he bade them remember when in after years they should be students at Wittenberg, how they had once sprung from bank to bank of the mighty stream. The Elbe has, however, two sources: this the most visited. The other is ten miles distant on the southern slope of Schneekoppe. They unite their waters in the Elbgrund.

A stream is formed at once by the copious spring. We followed it down the slope—

"Infant of the weeping hills,Nursling of the springs and rills"—

to a rocky gulf, where it leaps a hundred feet into the precipitous chasm, and chafes onwards in a succession of cascades far below, gathering strength for its rush through the mountain barrier—the Saxon Highlands—and its long, lazy course through the plains of Northern Germany. Here a little shanty is erected, the tenants of which dam the water, and let it loose for its plunge when tourists arrive who are willing to pay a fee to see Nature improved on. But you may scramble about the rocks and down to the noisy influx of the Pantsche Fall as long as you please, and peep over into the deep gulf, without any payment.